Ruined Rohan
by attractive hobbt
Summary: When the riders leave for Helms Deep, their families and children are put to danger... One man must find the lost riders and save Rohan from the oncoming armies...


**Ruined Rohan**

Prologue:

The day after the riders of Rohan left for Helms Deep:

Clearwater Village sat on the west Emnet river coast, a scorching sun rang down onto the emerald fields of Rohan. It was a quiet enough town, more than a village actually. The river marked the bottom perimeter of the village, three small huts sat on the bank, wooden defensive spikes protruded aggressively from the bank side, in the distance Fangorn forest could be seen it's ominous shadow casting a cloak over the fifteen housed village.

Three main cobbled roads cut through the village, hatched houses were grouped in twos, a large bunk house sat on the top of the valley looking down onto the thatched rooftops, a rectangular barracks joined onto the stable at the back of the village. A single wooden wall with a walkway joined the four towers overlooking the village, there were no guards present. There were no men present in the village. There was only way into the village, a single path joining onto the wooden bridge the crossed the river.

"One day we'll be old enough Holborn!" the sixteen year old stable boy moaned, his hand curled around the broom as he swept the hay away, for sixteen the boy was tall, more of a young man than boy now. His greasy, long black hair fell past his chin, a parting showed his strong complexion, and two bright green eyes that glistened with knowledge and longing. He wore a ragged working shirt, torn at the sleeved showing long but muscular arms, a pair of ragged trousers tucked into his riding boots. "It's not a case of being old enough, Crier they just don't want us!" Holborn was the opposite of the handsome Crier. He was overweight; his blond shaggy hair was shorter showing a fat chin and relaxed jawline, he ate a loaf of bread the crumbs hanging to his dirt ridden beard.  
"They just don't want your fart arse weighing the horses down!" Crier laughed as he swept the hay from the stable and into the dirt road. Holborn frowned, "it's not fat. It's muscle."  
Crier burst into laughter again, the day before the riders of Rohan had left for the battle at Helms Deep at some white wizard's request. They had stopped at each village, recruiting more men and horses, Holborn and Crier were left to look after the women, children and elders. There had been no contact from the riders since they passed through the previous day.  
Holborn opened his mouth to speak, a low horn sounded throughout the valley, "They're back!"  
He scoffed the bread; he jogged to his feet pushing down the path, his legs wobbling with each step, Crier stayed put, that wasn't a Rohan horn. It was too mellow and sinister. He dropped the broom, sprinted past the jolly Holborn, up the wooden steps to the third guardhouse. A black mass could be seen progressing down into the valley, "mother guide us."  
"Orcs!" his throat let out an inaudible scream, he shook as he reached for the bell, chimes sounded throughout the village. "Orcs! Orcs! Coming down the valley, everyone close the gates!"  
Doors opened, shouts echoed, elders and women came out shuffling children to the horses, Crier sprinted to the next guard tower picking a bow and arrows, his green eyes settled on the mass of Orcs. Two elders shut the gate, Holborn had grabbed a large war axe licking his lips, "Orcs smorks, they bleed and die just like everything else."  
He joined Crier at the top of the wall, the black mass settled on the other side of the river, four Wargs ridden by Orcs led the attacking squadron, Orcs drew back their bows, flaming the tips on the cauldrons carried by two of the Wargs. The leading Orc, a fat hooked nose character, raised his hand. "Holborn, knock down the back wall, we can get the children out via that way, everyone else can either fight or flee. We can give them time."  
Holborn nodded yelling, "children and elders follow me, those who want to fight man the wall!"  
Crier cursed pulling back the bow string, he had also picked a small curved dagger, if anyone looked closely at Crier they would notice he had Elf ears, it was said his father was a trader who fell in love with an Elf in Rivendell. He drew back the string of his bow.  
"For Rohan."  
The arrow flew through the air, the point severing the bulging neck of the lead Orc, he fell blood spewing from the wound as he fell from his Warg and into the raging river below. The Orcs yelled in fury, releasing the strings. Eighteen flaming arrows fell from the sky sparking raging fires on the humble village, screaming crowds of women and Rohan children fell to the mud in pools of blood. "Prepare for breach!" Crier yelled, a group of elders honed spears and swords in the path below, a few woman held shields and swords digging their feet into the path.  
The horn blew again, the Orcs rushed forwards; the fight for survival had begun.

The wooden doors shattered inwards, the front two elders swiped weakly at the Wargs legs before they were chopped down by the Orcish weaponry, another was decapitated by a spear one of the lead Orcs held. The women were either crushed or thrown to the side of the path; a wooden beam of one of the guard towers set alight, a cloud of smoke engulfed Clearwater Village.  
Crier leapt from the wall, his bow now slung on his back, the dagger equipped in his hand as he propelled himself forwards. The third Warg scampered onwards, the dagger entered above the rider's armour plate, Crier's left hand pushed him from the hound. The Warg howled as he sprinted with Crier on top of him through the village, he slipped the blade into the head of the Warg. Its front feet crumpled under its dead weight, followed by the back two, Crier was catapulted forwards into one of the stable rooms. "Eugh," Crier groaned hearing the distorted screams of the villagers, the stable was on fire, smoked filled his vision, a beam fell from above. He somersaulted forwards, diving into the path, smoke surrounded him, and the silhouettes could be seen through the dense fog. He pushed his way through the fog, warm liquid oozed from a cut in his head; he slipped and stumbled as his face went pale. He started coughing from the smoke, another scream to his right, he brought his dagger up quickly just as the Orc sword came crashing down against its metal, he parried, barley. Blood now drenched his face, Crier launched forwards the tip of his dagger pierced the Orcish armour. The Orc lolled backwards into a pile of dirt and blood, Crier coughed his vision now black before he turned at the sound of a horse, just as the hoof came crashing against his skull, knocking him out cold.


End file.
